At the Mouth of the Passage
by AstroGirl
Summary: Scorpius sits and waits. (Spoilers for "Terra Firma"!)


**At the Mouth of the Passage**

**by**** AstroGirl**

Forty solar days.  He has been alone here, he and his thoughts, for forty solar days.  He feels he should appreciate the silence, the privacy.  His natural state is aloneness, and he had thought that he'd missed it.

But the transport pod is too quiet, and his own thoughts merely run down the same channels again and again, unproductive.  His plans are all laid, his schemes all in place... and all out of his hands.   At this moment, there is nothing for him to do but watch and wait and be prepared to do what might be necessary.

And to listen to the silence.  Odd, how accustomed he has grown to hearing the others' voices, their conversations and complaints and strangely affectionate banter.  Seldom directed at him, of course, save for the complaints (and the occasional banter of a different sort from Sikozu), but they no longer stop talking among themselves when he enters a room.  As annoyingly frivolous as it sometimes is, he has come to find their interaction fascinating.  Even strangely... pleasant.  It is all so alien to his experience.  He has had superiors and underlings.  He has had tormenters and victims.  He has had adversaries.  He has had lovers, or at least recreational partners.  He has never had...  What would they call each other?  Friends?

For a moment, a part of him is actually envious.  But that is a weakness he cannot afford, and a luxury he does not need.  He squashes it mercilessly, without self-pity, and turns his thoughts to other matters.

Forty solar days.  He has had no contact with Braca, little contact with Moya.  He wonders how Crichton is faring on his homeworld, and feels a small stab of anxiety over the human's safety.  This feeling he does not squash.  It is relevant to his goal.  Too relevant.  He does not like having so much depending on any one factor, particularly not on one so vulnerable and unpredictable as John.

Forty days.  He is aware that time must flow differently here at the mouth of the wormhole and wonders how long it has been for John.  Calculations flit through his mind, equations arranging themselves in orderly rows, but vital components are missing and the answers he derives from them are either vague to the point of uselessness or patently nonsensical.  It is frustrating, and when he is through he has to force his fist to unclench, and draw in rapid breaths to cool his overheated body.  He is glad, now, that there is no one around to see.  

He is here at the mouth of a wormhole, but he does not understand it, and it does not answer to _him_.  

He is not, however, without power.  He smiles slightly at the thought, as he moves his fingers over the modified fuel cells, checking settings that the he already knows are correct.  The power of creation may be beyond him, but he knows perfectly well how to destroy.  A few small, simple movements from him, and the transport pod will be gone.  The wormhole will be gone.  He strongly suspects that the Command Carrier he is guarding against will be gone as well.  The unknowns in the equations are large, but so are the energies involved.

It has occurred to him that this may well be the most desirable outcome.  If Grayza is eliminated, the loudest and most powerful voice calling for Scarran appeasement will be rendered silent.  (He spares a fraction of a microt of regret at the thought of killing Braca, as well.  He is forced to admit to an almost foolish affection for the Lieutenant—the _Captain_.  Genuine loyalty is also something that is new to him, and he has come to value it.  Still, as with everything else, that, too, is expendable.)

And as for John...  He imagines the human's reaction at learning that his old adversary has given his life to protect the world he once threatened to destroy.  John's resolution to keep his knowledge to himself _can_ be shaken, he knows.  He has seen it, seen the wavering uncertainty in John's eyes.  One shock, one surprise, one unexpected "noble gesture" on a former enemy's part, an irrefutable demonstration of the strength of Scorpius' own convictions...  It might be enough to tip the balance.  It very well might be more than enough.

If only he could be sure, he would call the Carrier himself, would key the destruct sequence with a snarl of triumph on his lips.  But he cannot die if he is not certain.  Not if there are still other options.

He removes his finger from the comms control toward which it has drifted, and sits back, and sighs.

Forty solar days.  He knows that he can wait as long as necessary, that he has the strength to live or die, as needed.  He knows that he can do it alone, because aloneness is his natural state of being.

But he rather hopes that someone will come for him soon.  He's not even entirely sure that he cares who.

It's almost time for it all to be over.


End file.
